


The Pleasure of Private Life

by Nemainofthewater



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Domesticity, Don't copy to another site, Food, Gen, Humour, M/M, Post-Canon, Rusty Quill Gaming Exchange 2020, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23616913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: Zolf and Oscar receive an invitation.Post-canon, slice of life.
Relationships: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 6
Kudos: 44
Collections: Rusty Quill Gaming Exchange 2020





	The Pleasure of Private Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [butterflymind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflymind/gifts).



The invitation was written on creamy paper, smooth and shining and covered in golden lettering so elaborate that it took Zolf a good twenty minutes to decipher the words. Which were the verbal equivalent to the paper; full of meaningless pomp and circumstance meant to cost the reader time and mental fortitude to decipher what amounted to a dinner invitation.

“It’s a bit more than that,” Oscar said when Zolf imparted those thoughts to him over breakfast. It was a weekend, that meant that the table was filled with bowls of creamy porridge, sweetened with honey and summer berries; thick rashers of hickory-smoked bacon; sage and apple sausages seasoned with strong black pepper; a bowl of plain white rice topped with lightly grilled plaice, a memento from their years of Japanese breakfasts; scrambled eggs seasoned with furikake- a Japanese spice mix made of ground sesame seeds, dried anchovies, and bonito flakes, among other things; and of course a large pot of black tea. The two of them had woken early and spent the morning cooking breakfast together as was their habit, by which it could be read that Zolf had done all of the actual cooking while Oscar had amused him by reading the Society pages aloud and provided all manner of gossip upon those unfortunate enough to feature in it.

Zolf, though he would never bring himself to admit it, loved hearing of the exploits of the Marchioness de so and so or the Viscount de such and such with a glee unbecoming of his station, though he found it hard to believe that such individuals were granted power and prestige on the basis of their bloodline alone. Which is why he was firmly of the opinion that the best thing to do with the aforementioned invitation would be to pretend they hadn’t received it, or perhaps set fire to it in the back garden. Unfortunately, Oscar didn’t agree.

“An invitation from the Duke of York isn’t something that can be ignored,” Oscar said, spreading golden marmalade onto his toast. Zolf scowled back at him, snatching the now-sticky knife back from him before he could do something as barbaric as return it to the butter dish.

“I don’t see why not,” he grunted, placing the dirty knife atop his own plate where it couldn’t be used to commit further atrocities. “Seems to me that we’ve done plenty of ignoring folks, aristocracy or not. No matter how fancy their paper or how illegible their script.”

“Oh, darling,” Oscar said, batting his eyelashes, and Zolf snorted because that was a tone that only came out when Oscar was being a facetious little shit and they both knew it. “Darling,” Oscar repeated. “Although you are a hero of the times, that sort of thing brings with it expectations. Social expectations. Expectations that can’t be ignored.”

“Honeybun,” Zolf said flatly. “I saved the world. And if those stuck-up aristocrats don’t like it then they can suck on it. Sugarbear.”

Oscar winced. “Is that a Harrison Campbell original?” he asked.

“Hah, no,” Zolf said. “And I’m offended that you had to ask. Harrison’s endearments are of a much higher quality.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Oscar replied. “One would hope that he didn’t solely rise to the position of Poet Laureate by virtue of being the only author endorsed by the famous Zolf Smith.”

If there was one good thing about surviving the apocalypse, and indeed being an instrumental part in its resolution, it was that people were properly appreciative. To the point that Oscar often joked that he was Zolf’s kept man, as though he wasn’t an acclaimed hero on his own merit. To all of their amusement, now that the world had regained some semblance of normality, this often meant that they had become minor celebrities in their own right. And while this did mean having to politely (or not so politely) decline several political dinner invitations, it also meant that Zolf now regularly received letters from admirers and stick-figure drawings of their valiant battles to stop the blue-veined plague from their children. The letters were all filed in Oscar’s office, but the pictures were carefully tucked in his bedside drawer.

“You don’t think my endorsement means anything?” Zolf grinned up at him; a proper smile. One that showed his teeth.

“Oh,” Oscar said, leaning forward and taking his hand. “I know that your endorsement means _everything._ Which is why we need to go to this party.”

Zolf groaned, slumping back in his seat, running his hands through his hair and thoroughly mussing his neat plaits.

“Why is this so important to you?” he asked plaintively. “I know that you hate the Duke of York. I remember you saying just last week that you’d rather make small talk with a Paladin of Ares than spend more than a minute listening to that ‘human flatulence, who fancies himself so clever that no one can understand a word of what he’s saying’.”

“I hadn’t realised that you paid so much attention to what I say.”

“Oscar. I always pay attention to you. Always. And that’s why I know that you loathe this man? I don’t understand why you want to subject both of us to hours of playing nice with him!”

“The Duke of York himself isn’t why we would be going,” Oscar said.

“Really? Because as far as I can tell, it’s his signature on the letter.”

Oscar sniffs contemptuously. “No, the handwriting’s too neat. It’s probably a scribe. The important thing is that the Duke of York is Edward’s father.”

“Edward? Keystone? Paladin of Apollo, Ed?”

“How many Edwards do we know? Yes, that Edward.”

“But he’s so-” Zolf made a vague gesture. Cheerful. A dozen swords short of an armoury. Not a dick. “Nice.”

“He is,” Oscar agreed. “Not the sort of person you’d imagine coming from that family. Ed doesn’t like to speak of his father, and I don’t blame him; it was quite a scandal when he was sent to the Temple of Apollo, aged only ten. Although, it might have been a blessing in disguise.”

“None of this is making want to go to the man’s party. Rather the opposite, in fact. Why is it that so many people I’ve known, good people, have fought and perished, but bottom-of-the-barrel scum like the Duke of York still lives?”

“Because they’re already used to surviving, no matter the cost to others,” Oscar said flatly, and there was something in his eyes and the way that his hand reached absently upward to trace his scar that had Zolf lean over the table and take his hand, squeezing it gently in reassurance.

“So we’re accepting the invitation to make sure that the Duke of York isn’t even more of a dick to Ed. That’s fair enough, but why don’t we just not go and drag Ed out drinking instead? I’m sure that you can come up with some important Meritocratic function or secret mission that you need him for, no problem.”

“As heart-warming as your faith in me is, I’m afraid it wouldn’t be possible. Even if I did have that hypothetical power- I’m retired, remember?-” Zolf snorted, because he did remember and because he believed it not at all, “-and because it is rather gauche even for me to spirit away the guest of honour from his own party. And it would create more problems for Edward in the first place.”

“The guest of honour? I thought his father-”

“Oh, the man hates him.” A flash of teeth. Oscar had become wilder after his time in the apocalypse, or perhaps he had always been so and just didn’t bother to hide it anymore. “But as his eldest son and heir died during the plague, he has no choice but to accept Edward back with open arms. He needs a legitimate heir, after all, and one who theoretically can pass down the family name. This invitation is the first step into reintroducing Edward to High Society.”

“Poor Ed,” Zolf said. “He’s not going to enjoy that.” He sighed, seeing the inevitable rise before him. “I suppose that means we can’t get out of it, then. We’re going to have to go along and make sure that he has someone decent to talk to.”

“I’m glad that you’ve come around to my way of thinking.” Oscar in victory was akin to a large cat, all smug smiles and loose limbs and lidded eyes that that loudly proclaimed their amusement and the sure and certain knowledge that had you just gone along with their plan in the first place, it would have saved immense time and effort. Oscar is victory wasn’t much different to Oscar in repose, Oscar in defeat, Oscar in daily life. He was, however, a world away from Oscar drenched in water, sardonic smile on his lips in London; Oscar lying in a Parisian gutter with a metal gag tight against his mouth; Oscar exhausted and pale and angry in Japan. Zolf loved each of those men equally; how could he not? They were all Oscar, after all. But he also knew which one he preferred.

“I don’t know,” he said. “If someone had actually given me the pertinent information, instead of beating ‘round the bush like this, I figure I would have caught on a lot quicker. But then, old dogs and new tricks and all that.”

“Ah,” Oscar said. “But why go against the habits of a lifetime?”

“I dunno,” Zolf said, giving up on breakfast and leaning across the table to kiss Oscar. “I could make it worth your while.”

“Mmm,” Oscar said. “I look forward to it.”


End file.
